


The Adventure Of The Cuffed Coiner

by Cerdic519



Series: Further Adventures Of Mr. Sherlock Holmes [79]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Chemistry, F/M, Forgery, London, M/M, Money, Politics, Slow Burn, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-28 06:49:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15702033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Mycroft is back, and once more demanding his younger brother's help in solving a case with potentially severe diplomatic repercussions. Sherlock 'cuffs' the criminal in his own unique way.





	The Adventure Of The Cuffed Coiner

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Darklady](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darklady/gifts).



_Introduction by Sir Sherrinford Holmes, Baronet_

Contrary to what was later misinterpreted by many 'Sherlockians', my brother's caseload did not diminish as the century drew to a close. Watson documented all these cases, but at this point he started separating them into four groups. Stories for future publication, those for potential future publication and those that could never be published were three of them, and the fourth, which grew larger as time went on, were cases that he felt the public would not care for as they either lacked excitement or too closely mirrored earlier cases. That year he and Sherlock undertook but two cases that were later published - _“The Abbey Grange”_ and “The Devil's Foot - and later that same year undertook two more cases which Watson placed in the 'possibles' pile and which I have included in this set of stories because I considered them quite interesting. And not just because Sherlock spent much of the first seriously annoying our brother Mycroft.

One of these days I will work out how I can hear Kean smirking from the next room!

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

_Narration by Doctor John Hamish Watson, M.D._

It would be churlish of me to start this tale by stating my regrets at not being able to publish this story due to political considerations was augmented because I so enjoyed my friend Holmes dealing effectively with his annoying brother Mycroft. So I shall not say that. It would be quite wrong of me.

I recall that I had been feeling particularly pleased with myself as I returned to Baker Street that fine April morn. Some shares that I had purchased on Holmes' advice had done particularly well, and doubtless even my bank-manager was feeling happy for a change. Yes, I felt very cheerful - until I approached 221B, where my good mood evaporated faster than the morning dew. The carriage of Mr. Mycroft Holmes was parked outside our house. Damnation!

Fortunately only moments later the lounge-lizard himself hurried of the front door, and the vehicle sped away as I approached. I braced myself internally; Holmes once more endured his elder brother’s presence only as a necessary evil in his service to the country, but he no longer felt happy about it. And it would had to have been serious for the scoundrel to be here. I wondered just how ruffled my friend would be as a result.  
 

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

   
My friend rarely got angry, but of late his brother's visits had led to a cold and frankly chilling focus on the matter in hand that I did not like. I gave silent thanks that at least he no longer kept that dreadful syringe in his desk drawer; that was one definite improvement since his return to my life.  
   
“Mycroft wishes me to investigate a diplomatically sensitive case concerning a coiner”, he told me. “It concerns three houses along East Smithfield, near both the Royal Mint and the Tower itself; numbers 97, 99 and 101.”  
   
Th East End, I noted, although as he had said it had to be close to the great castle, so perhaps a better area.  
   
“Number 97 is home to Mr. Dorin Albu, one of the most prominent Rumanians living in our capital city”, he went on. “He is the reason behind the diplomacy element; the position of his country in the forthcoming European conflict is as yet unclear, so we do not wish to upset him if we can avoid it. Unless of course he turns out to be the guilty party, in which case Mycroft will be really quite annoyed.”  
   
I silently hoped for just such an outcome.   
   
“Number 99 is most probably the scene of the coiner’s operations. Unfortunately the house is split into three parts, and as luck would have it each is occupied by a potential suspect. In the basement we have Mr. Robin Trent, a clerk in his early forties who works at the London City and Midland Bank in St. Paul’s. He has an interesting past; his wife died in somewhat suspicious circumstances although nothing was ever proven. He benefited greatly from a life insurance policy that he had taken out on her just two months prior.”  
   
“And he works with money, so he would know how it is made”, I offered.  
   
“On the ground floor we have Mr. Sean Davies, single, thirty-two and with links to Irish nationalist groups. Who, of course, are always in need of money. He does casual labour here and there, and Mycroft thinks that the amount that he spends is more than can be accounted for by such an existence.”  
   
I nodded. “The first floor?” I asked.  
   
“Occupied by the Marklands, a newly-married couple recently arrived from the United States”, Holmes said. “Mr. Jehu Markland owns two businesses, which he purchased shortly after coming here but does not take any part in the running of. His wife Carly is pregnant with their first child. According to Mycroft his business hours are 'irregular'.”  
   
“They must have had money to be able to afford to buy a whole business, let alone two”, I said.  
   
“An inheritance in their homeland”, Holmes said. “Or so they claim. Mycroft is investigating that, but as it is overseas it may take some time.”  
   
“And number 101?” I asked.  
   
“It is owned by a middle-aged man called Mr. Sebastian Gold”, Holmes said. “Forty-five and separated from his wife, though according to the divorce petition he is undertaking and that she is not contesting, it was because of _her_ behaviour, not his. It was his brother Sylvester, visiting at the time, who reported the suspicious goings-on next door to his home.”  
   
“What sort of goings-on?” I asked.  
   
“Strange smells in the basement, which adjoins Mr. Gold’s own”, Holmes said. “He suspected at first that it was something wrong with the drains, but he claimed that he heard banging coming from next door, though he could not say from which floor. I suspect that one of the people in that street is a coiner.”

“I would have thought that there would be more money in faking notes like the Carrs did”, I observed.

“In this case, I suspect that there may be a reason for that particular choice”, Holmes said. “The problem will be in identifying which of the people is the coiner and therefore the guilty party. A false accusation, especially if it involves Mr. Albu, could be disastrous.”

I nodded at that. 

“We should go there tomorrow”, he said. “I have also instituted certain inquiries through the agency of dear Miss Richards; one cannot be too careful when dealing with people who could start a war if the mood takes them.”

“And with the Rumanians!” I could not help but say.

He shook his head at me but smiled.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

The following day we made our way to East Smithfield, which as I had thought turned out to be the main road leading east out of the City from the Tower itself. That ancient building always made my blood run cold, and I thought of the many people who had been done to death within its grim walls. It still loomed over the area as it had for some eight centuries now, though I was pleased to see that Sir John Barry's bascule/suspension bridge next to it seemed to be drawing as much as if not more attention, despite now entering its fourth year of operation. A rare piece of modern architecture that I actually liked!

Numbers 81 through to 111 were a run of early Victorian houses at the Tower end of the road, bordered to the east by a rather ugly yellow-bricked factory. All the houses had clearly seen better days and two had signs outside stating that they were 'To Let', one of which was number 95 next to the Rumanian diplomat's house.

The quality of the area was not at all improved by our having to meet Mr. Mycroft Holmes there. For someone so allegedly brilliant he could be dense when it came to some things; he had again visited the eldest brother Sherrinford to complain about my friend not being at his beck and call, and received precisely zero sympathy.

“This is not good, Sherlock”, the nuisance said. “The local police sent someone round just to check up on the house yesterday, and the idiot actually questioned our diplomat friend as well. The Rumanian ambassador has already put in a complaint.”

“Diplomats are regrettably if necessarily above the law”, Holmes said, frowning, “but they cannot expect not to be questioned if a crime is taking place in their locality. “At least Mr. Sebastian Gold should be happy that we are investigating his complaint.”

“Far from it!” his brother groused. “He was all for letting the matter drop, but his brother Sylvester, who was only at the house for a few nights before sailing off to Madras or some such God-forsaken hole, complained about being kept awake during his brief stopover and Mr. Gold felt obliged to tell the constable who came round what he himself had heard.”

“Where did Mr. Sylvester Gold sleep?” Holmes asked. His brother looked surprised at the question, as was I.

“I cannot see what that has to do with anything”, he said. “But he did mention it in his statement. The basement; he has his own key and his brother was not even aware that he was there until the day of his departure. Do you think....?”

“We need to see that basement”, Holmes said firmly. “I assume that Mr. Sebastian Gold is at work. Does he keep servants in the house?”

“No”, his brother said. “He had a woman who comes in and does for him to keep the place clean, a Mrs. Barlow who lives just down the road. She comes in every morning at around eleven but only does the basement when specifically asked. Why are you interested in that?”

Holmes did not answer him, but checked his watch before hurrying over to number 99. Like all the houses it had two front entrances, a main one and a small one for the basement accessed down a flight of stone steps behind a rusting iron railing. Holmes hurried down and tried the door, then took something out of his pocket. His brother was barely into an objection before something clicked (it always worried me how good a lock-picker my friend could be when needed) and he all but ran into the room.

The basement room was much as expected, dirty and spectacularly ordinary. The three pieces of furniture were a bed hard up against the left-hand wall, a dresser not far from it, and a wash-stand on the right-hand wall that had clearly not been used for at least a couple of days. 

“Who lives in number 103?” Holmes asked his brother.

“A family called the Thompsons”, his brother said. “But they are away visiting a relative in Scotland and have been for the past three weeks. The gentleman at 105 is looking after the place for them and gave me their address so I was able to check them out.”

“Interesting”, Holmes said with a smile. “You did not tell me what Mr. Sebastian Gold does for a living?”

His questions were by this time clearly annoying his brother (all well and good!), but he still answered. 

“He works down in the docks”, he said. “He is a manager, with three clerks underneath him. He has quite a good reputation.”

“Then the case is solved”, Holmes said simply.

“How?” his brother asked at once. My friend smiled.

“Tomorrow you should send a team of men to search number 99 from top to bottom”, Holmes told him. “You might inform the Rumanian ambassador - and for that matter the American one - of your plans a short while beforehand in order that they do not get their feathers even more ruffled about their citizens being drawn into a criminal investigation.”

“And what are they looking for?” his brother asked.

“If I told you that they might well find it whether it is there or not now”, Holmes said crisply. “Watson and I are attending one of his surgery functions tomorrow evening, at Lady Hoveringham's house in Grosvenor Square, but if you care to meet us there I shall be in a position to tell all.”

I quietly cheered when his brother had that look of intense frustration on his face at my friend's teasing. Though judging from the glare that I got as he left, not quietly enough.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

The following day was one of heavy rain, beating hard and fast against the Baker Street windows. Holmes had gone out into the deluge (much against my wishes) in order to finalize his investigations, and when he came back he looked like a drowned rat. I hurried to get him out of those wet clothes – he really did not take proper care of himself - and soon had him dry, warm and relaxing in his dressing-gown.

After a good dinner before leaving (Lady Hoveringham's events were renowned for small fancy 'portions' that always failed to fill one up), we dressed ourselves for the ordeal ahead. For such a brilliant detective Holmes was hopeless with formal wear; we left almost five minutes late (which was good for us) and made it to Hoveringham House to be greeted by Lady Hoveringham herself. Sadly there was another annoyance there besides the dreadfully small food portions; Mr. Mycroft Holmes was at the house when we arrived and clearly impatient to speak with us. 

Holmes, quite deliberately in my opinion, made sure to meet and greet all the important people first, brazenly ignoring his brother's foot-tapping and angry glares before finally leading us away to a side-room where we could talk undisturbed. Or at least undisturbed by people; whoever had chosen the décor for this room had clearly thought that magenta, navy blue and off-yellow would work together. They really needed to stop with the strange mushrooms.

“I had six officers search that house from top to bottom”, Mr. Mycroft Holmes groused, “and they found nothing worse than an erotic magazine in the possession of Mr. Jehu Markland. For which his wife gave him plenty of gyp, but that apart, nothing, Holmes. Sweet nothing!”

“That is good”, Holmes said dryly. “That is just what I expected you to find.”

His brother looked at him in shock.

“What?” he spluttered. 

“I wished you to make a fuss of searching that house, because I wished the culprit in this matter to think themselves in the clear”, Holmes said. “Today, in between dodging the Good Lord's attempt to recreate the great flood, I discovered two things about that person. Firstly, I found that they have an in-depth knowledge of numismatics. And secondly, I obtained proof that they have been creating fake coins.”

“I still do not see why coins and not notes”, I put in. 

Holmes gave his brother one of those knowing smiles which very obviously annoyed him. Mr. Mycroft Holmes huffed impatiently.

“I fully expected your men to find nothing at Number 99 East Smithfield”, Holmes said. “Indeed, had you handed over _all_ the information at your command rather than forcing me to go out in what turned out to be an apocalyptic downpour, I might have felt more inclined to help you. Take your men back to the area tomorrow and search the house next door, number 101. Inside you will find a small coining apparatus as well as sufficient chemicals to fake some of the most high-quality coins that I have ever had the pleasure of viewing.”

“How can you know that?” his brother demanded

“You withheld the small but critical fact that, whilst the company that employs Mr. Sebastian Gold does most of its business dealing in spices and related trade from the Far East, they run a most lucrative side-line”, Holmes said. “For a price they will ship small but highly-prized items, most usually stamps, books and coins, from anywhere along their routes. Transporting such items is a high-risk business; I believe one particularly rare stamp recently sold for almost a quarter of a million pounds sterling recently simply because of a minor printing error in its manufacture. And England is rich enough to have people who can afford not only to buy such items, but to pay for the best in shipping and security.”

“Mr. Sylvester Gold, the sailor?” I asked. Holmes shook his head.

“Mr. Sylvester is more a victim here”, he said, “as he is about to lose a brother. Mr. Sebastian Gold on the other hand has acquired an in-depth knowledge of the coin-making process, and over doubtless many years has perfected the art of producing a most excellent fake. Books and stamps are hard to copy but a coin is so much easier and the recipient, having paid so much, would assume at least initially that what they had had fetched from halfway round the world was precisely what it seemed. Mr. Sebastian Gold waited for a sizeable enough shipment that he could produce a fake copy of, whereon he would abscond to a new life in some county where he could purchase a new identity, no questions asked.”

“You are just guessing!” his brother scoffed. 

Holmes fixed him with an icy glare. I was sure that the temperature in the room suddenly fell by several degrees. I wondered if there was going to be blood. Well, there was probably a doctor to hand somewhere. I would go and look for one if asked nicely.

“Sorry”, Mr. Mycroft Holmes said.

“Harrumph!” my friend said. “A sailor leads a somewhat irregular life, so the brothers had an arrangement that Mr. Sylvester Gold – who knows nothing of his brother’s criminality – had a key to the basement, to use as and when he required. It was Mr. Sebastian's bad luck that one such stopover occurred at precisely the time that he was using his tools to create the fake set of coins that, he hoped, would set him up for life. The loud hammering woke our sailor but he mistakenly thought that the noise was coming from next door, as he could naturally think of no reason why his brother would be making such a noise. You will remember that Mr. Sylvester's bed was on the side of the wall adjoining number 99.”

“We would need proof for a second raid in the area”, Mr. Mycroft Holmes said dubiously.

“I thought that you might”, Holmes said, “so I took the precaution of breaking into number 101 myself earlier today. I retrieved a pair of Mr. Sebastian Gold’s cuffs.”

“His cuffs?” I asked, confused.

Holmes smiled and took a set of somewhat dirty white cuffs from his pocket. They were clearly some sort of work or guard cuffs rather than formal ones. Laying them out on the coffee-table he then produced a small vinegar-bottle from his other pocket.

“Vinegar?” I asked, now even more totally confused. He shook his head.

“Sulphuric acid”, he said. “I obtained it from a scientist friend of mine.”

He applied the clear liquid liberally all over the cuffs, which at once began smoking gently and hissing. We both stared in puzzlement.

“The coining process creates minuscule zinc and iron filings”, Holmes explained, “which shoot up when the fake coin is hammered out, and embed themselves in the skin and clothing of the coiner. Sulphuric acid reacts with zinc, as you can see. He wore these old cuffs as added protection to cover the area between the gloves and the skin, doubtless meaning to dispose of all once he was done. Unfortunately I had to flee before I could find the gloves as the cleaner most inconsiderately arrived before her time. I am however sure that if you told a judge that, say, a pair of cuffs had fallen out of Mr. Sebastian Gold’s laundry and come into your possession and that you thereby had reason to suspect him guilty of creating false coin – well, our judiciary has a variable reputation at times, but I believe that you would get your warrant.”

He did. And soon after, he got Mr. Sebastian Gold, who instead of the incomparable wealth he had been angling for, got a very lengthy spell at Her Majesty’s Pleasure. Indeed he was fortunate that he got that, as creating false coin for currency usage was still a capital offence. Holmes, very fairly, sent the judge a letter stating that he believed the coins created had been for individual profit rather than general circulation, and that surely helped to save the man's miserable neck.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩


End file.
